


Sinners, Saints, Sacraments

by MaySparrow



Series: if you love me, love all of me [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Beelzebub uses They/them, Consort to Royalty, Established Relationship, Gabriel Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Gabriel Has a Penis (Good Omens), Gabriel is kind of into being dominated, Good Omens Kink Meme, Ineffable Bureaucracy (Good Omens), Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Infernal Monarchy, Multi, Worldbuilding, entirely skippable porn tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2021-01-20 21:15:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21288287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaySparrow/pseuds/MaySparrow
Summary: In the months following the failed Apocalypse, Beelzebub's claim as Prince is under fire unless they find a Consort to take some of their duties. Trouble is, having a demonic consort is pretty risky, and comes with its own dangers.Gabriel has a suggestion.Written for the Good Omens Kink Meme.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Beelzebub/Gabriel (Good Omens), Hastur & Michael (Good Omens), Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: if you love me, love all of me [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1534586
Comments: 27
Kudos: 133
Collections: Good Omens Kink Meme





	1. the arrangement

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Good Omens Kink meme, the prompter of which was ALSO the same prompter that inspired Marks and their Meanings. They got excited about the implications of Ligur's faction causing issues, I got excited that I could tie it into more stupid workdbuilding, and this 16k monster is the result. See the prompt [here.](https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/616.html?thread=1159272&style=site)

As Prince of Gluttony, Beelzebub finds some habits are hard to break. Example: when under high amounts of stress, they eat to deal with their feelings. And, yes, they like and eat a good amount of food on a good day, but there is a difference between enjoying a nine course tasting dinner, and wanting to devour a whole raw rack of beef, still on the butcher's hook.

When they try to explain this to Gabriel, he vehemently disagrees, arguing there is no difference in the amount. Like the “holy being” he is, he completely misses the point, in that preparation plays a massive part of the craving.

Flies swarm to raw, stinking meat. When Beelzebub is under stress, they act like the Lord of Flies that they are.

But it doesn't matter. They don't have to explain themself, not to a pesky angel.

That's what they tell themself as they swallow around their torn shred of beef rib, scowling as they rant further at said angel.

“And on top of everything elzzzze, they're uzzzzing my lack of a conzzzort to claim I have lozzzt my right to my throne!”

Gabriel is sitting across from them, elbow on the table, chin on his hand, watching in what looks like rapt horror and impressed disgust as they tear into their bloody meal. He is keeping as far as he can from the meal in case any blood spatters in his direction, as though Beelzebub will not catch and devour every drop, down to the marrow. “What. Does that have to do with anything.”

They take the time to lick their lips, suck the red from their fingers, and wipe them onto the cloth napkin, before tossing the fabric onto the table and pushing their face into their clean fingers, groaning.

“Many of the prinzzezzz have a conzzort or partner, a zzzecond in command or a zzzort of trophy to hang on their arm. Nn-”

“Take a second,” Gabriel interrupts gently, hand raised. “I can barely understand you with the buzzing.”

They grit their teeth, but obey, inhaling deeply and letting it out in a long sigh. “I have never seen the need to take a consort of Hell—no demon interests me in any level of pleasure or intellect, and none have proven as reliable assistant. It is, after all, a very vulnerable position for a Prince, letting a lesser demon be so close to their crown. It can incite....” they pause, and make a gesture with their hands, vague. “Picture a praying mantis, biting off its partner's head, and then taking the dead one's crown.”

“Ew.”

“I've seen it happen exactly as so.”

_“Ew.”_

“It is even more unpleasant than you can imagine. You recall Asmodeus?”

“Prince of Lust, yeah.”

“Original an incubus, consort to Lilith.”

“But Lilith isn't.... a thing,” he begins slowly.

They give him a very pointed look. “Not anymore.”

Gabriel whistles lowly, making a pained face. Beelzebub drops their face back into their hands.

“I don't _want_ to have a consort. But the Dukes are restless. They argue that my mediation visits take me from Hell too often for me to keep my claim on my domain. A consort or second lieutenant would take on some of my duties for when I am not present.”

“And there's no one in Hell you trust nearly enough for that.”

“Not in the slightest, especially not after all the breathing down my neck from Armageddon and the loss of a Duke. It's a power grab, little else. But if I do not assert some level of control, or an expression of power, I run the very real risk of a mass rebellion, or even one of the other Princes seeking to collect my domain.”

“That's. A lot,” he says eloquently.

“It izz.”

“Anything I can do?”

They scoff, picking up another rib and ripping into it with their teeth, rending flesh from bone. “It'zz not azz though YOU can be my consort,” they say around a mouthful of meat.

Gabriel says nothing for a moment, before asking thoughtfully; “I mean, why not?”

Beelzebub freezes. Stares, and then swallows. “You're an _angel._”

“Yeah.”

“So angels can't be consorts to demons.”

“There's no rule against it, though.”

“Becauzzze it hazzz never been conzzzidered! Becauzzzze it izzz zzztupid!”

Ignoring their growing buzzing, Gabriel begins to count on his fingers. “It would be a big symbol of status to have an Archangel as your consort. No other Prince would be able to claim that, even with their own trophy consorts.” Another finger. “I'm already perfectly capable of taking any responsibilities as a second in command.” A third finger. “I'm not exactly about to bite your head off here.”

“I'll bite _your_ head off,” Beelzebub mumbles irritably, sucking their fingers clean. Gabriel continues ignoring them, holding out a fourth finger, grinning cheekily.

“_I_ can interest you in both pleasure and intellect.”

Beelzebub goes very quiet, scowling without denying. Undeterred, Gabriel pushes on.

“Think like this. The demon Crowley and the Principality Aziraphale have their own little team, whatever the hell they are.” He makes a little gesture, waving off whatever it is. “They're _untouchable_. The forces of Heaven and Hell can't go for one of them, because the other will be right there.”

They quirk their lips, running their tongue over them to catch any traces of food. “In all the time that traitor reported me, he never actually named the angel he was meant to be working around. Aziraphale, you said?”

“Yeah. Hate that guy,” Gabriel grimaces. “He always did have a sort of issue with following the messier parts of the Great Plan. Went along with it, but you could tell he was just keeping his mouth shut so he wouldn't get demoted _again_.”

“Mm.” They fold their hands and rest their chin on them.

“My point is, think about the fear you could incite, having an _Archangel_ as your second. You, sitting on your big clunky throne, me, lurking right behind it, a big ol' strong body guard.”

“Ego. Vanity,” Beelzebub teases at him, their grin wide and sharp on the last syllable. It's a familiar joke, it lights something up in their chest at the Archangel's little scowl. “What of your Heavenly duties? You wouldn't be able to complete them, in my domain.”

He thinks on this. “The structure Upstairs isn't quite so medieval. I'll discuss my duties with Michael, and she and Uriel can divide my departments between themselves. Everything Upstairs is a little bit self contained in terms of divisions, so things _should_ move smoothly in my absence. Still. I'd have to go over the details with her.”

“You would no longer be Heaven's mediator, though.”

“No, but I trust Michael to be competent and fair to work with you. She had, if I recall, some access to your domain through one of your Dukes.”

Beelzebub considers all this quietly, their tongue picking between their teeth absentmindedly as they think. Finally, because they can't think of a very good rebuttal, they say thoughtfully, “Huh. I shall... need to make some arrangements of my own, but, it's not actually a terrible plan.”

“See? I'm _intellectual._” Gabriel waggles his brows, looking very pleased with himself, and they scowl at him. “Can I interest you in the other stuff yet?”

“Let me finish my meal, you dunce.”

-

“Quit_ dawdling._”

“I'm not your bloody clerical assistant,” Hastur hisses back irately, but he quickens his pace to try to match Beelzebub's as they approach the escalator steps. 

The escalator out of Hell is not a moving one. It broke very shortly after the Downstairs completed construction, and it was never repaired. This has as much to do with symbolism as it has to do with the fact that human contractors can't find the thing. Beelzebub takes the steps two at a time, running their hands down their lapels at the zenith of the steps. Hastur is... slower.

When he finally makes it to the ground floor, the bastard is wheezing as though he's run a marathon. The Prince roles their eyes and turns to the escalator Upwards, narrowing their eyes at the brightness.

“Do me the honor of reminding me why _I'm_ attending this stupid--_ow!_” He bounces comically for a moment, nursing the toes Beelzebub has just stamped down hard on, and bites his teeth hard into his lower lip. “S'a perfectly fair question!”

“_You_ are here,” Beelzebub begins sharply, looking not at him but at the top of the escalator, “because the angel accompanying my own mediator has worked with the late Duke Ligur, and it is a necessity that communication be established and maintained through this tumultuous period. It's also pleasant to see you squirm.”

He scowls bitterly. “So I'm _not_ to go for their throats.”

“Preferably not, if you want to keep existing _and_ holding a position under my rule.”

There's little room for more conversation or questioning, as the angels finally appear at the top of the slowly descending steps. Gabriel meets Beelzebub's gaze, and he doesn't fully smile, not in the presence of others, but his eyebrows go up, wrinkling his forehead, in the way that means he's openly pleased about something. 

Behind him, Michael's expression is passive and closed off, difficult to discern. Her lips are thin and pressed together; she has the air of a judge watching the court proceedings without showing where her support lies. It's an incredible poker face, Beelzebub thinks. It's probably the face she wore when she kicked Lucifer directly in the solar plexus and knocked him out of heaven.

Beside them, they think they hear Hastur swallow.

Despite her air of authority, Michael passively allows Gabriel to lead the four of them out of the building to their meeting point. Under different circumstances, Beelzebub might have met their mediators on a lower level of the Heavenly floors—but, considering the occasion and the mediation discussions of the day (not to mention the fact that Hastur seems very clearly ready to burst out of his corporation as he contains his instinct to attack), it had seemed best to find more neutral ground. 

Beelzebub does not exchange many words with Gabriel on the way to an oft-used office building with a conference room, save to confirm his wards will not alert any currently working human employees, and taking the opportunity to enforce their own. Theirs is a more subtle weaving of wards; prompts to remind a passing employee of their need to refill their coffee mug, to prompt another manager to use the conference room across the floor. When it's complete, the Prince takes their seat beside Hastur on one side of the wide table.

On the other side, Gabriel and Michael sit, both with hands folded expectantly. Gabriel is visibly more relaxed when he meets Beelzebub's gaze, the corners of his eyes crinkling. Michael, on the other hand, sits straight, eyebrows slightly pinched together, the only giveaway that she's uncomfortable.

“Gabriel has informed me of the unfolding situation from your department, as well as the options he has offered you in terms of assistance. I trust you have the necessary documents specifying the hypothetical arrangement you are both considering.”

Without further prompting, Beelzebub snaps their fingers and pinches the form that slips from the ether between their thumb and fingers, setting it on the table to slide towards the angels across from them. “Your copy of the documentzz,” they state, “to study and edit, should you find any of the detailzz... insufficient.”

Gabriel barely glances at the forms in question, sliding it to Michael instead. Beelzebub tries not to scowl when the Archangel produces a magnifying glass while she inspects it closely.

(Fine print was a certain demon's suggestion, which humans had happily expanded on with intense law jargon the common man would not be able to translate until it was too late. Beelzebub finds it infuriating in their own forms, though it is useful when trying to get one over on their fellow Princes. They haven't tried to trick Gabriel with it since very early in the mediation proceedings, after he caught them at it twice.)

(Still, they can understand Michael's distrust. They had edited the original Consort forms themself, just about crossing out the entire clause that would allow the Prince to weaken and imprison their chosen as a safeguard.)

For a few moments, as Michael reads, there is a quiet. Beside them, Hastur fidgets openly, dirty fingers tapping on the dark wood, tip of thumb slipping between his teeth to worry at it. Beelzebub has half a mind to stamp on his foot again to make him stop—he's embarrassing himself, and them in the process.

In the awkward silence, Gabriel clears his throat, and the Prince visibly relaxes at his familiar gaze. “I trust Michael to look at the details for her own comfort, but you know me, I've always preferred hearing the details out loud. Why don't you let me know a few more of the responsibilities I'd be undertaking when this works out?”

_When, he says,_ Beelzebub thinks almost manically. _He really wants to do this._

Voice thin, they begin. 

“Should the arrangement be agreeable, you would be responsible for dealing with disputes while I am not present to do so. This is simple enough; hearing both sides of the dispute and making decisions on moving forward in a timely matter to deal with the next. While both in and out of my presence, you would be an extension of myself, and must present yourself as such.”

“So any shortcomings on my part would basically be taken as your own failures,” Gabriel intuits, and Beelzebub nods, swallowing. “Straightforward enough. What about duties to _you_, as Consort?”

“_Consort?!_” comes the sputter from Beelzebub's side, which they promptly ignore, pushing ahead with barely a grimace. “I have removed any specific requirements from the documents that would control your free will for my own benefit. Most Consorts are meant to obey every command without question, or endure punishment of their Prince's choosing. However, as is _specified_,” here, they shoot Michael a dark look as she continues to read the forms closely, ignoring them, “it would be damaging to mediation efforts, so any presentation of power imbalance whilst in the arrangement would be presentation only.”

Hastur is gaping, mouth opening and closing, not unlike that of a bullfrog. Gabriel takes the Prince's hint to ignore him. 

“But the presentation may be necessary for the sake of your own authority, in front of others, right? What would that entail?”

“It would be discussed between you and myself in advance, to ascertain what you will and will not comfortably--”

“Hang _on_,” Hastur finally interrupts, “both of ya, go _back _a second.” He points an accusatory finger at Beelzebub, who raises a singular eyebrow at the insult. “Whaddya mean,_ consort_? Yer not actually gonna have an _angel_\--”

“As a matter of fact,” they say sharply, authoritatively, leaving no room for question, “that is _exactly _what is being arranged here. _You,_” they add, pushing his pointed finger down into his lap with the tips of two of their own, as though he is disgusting to touch, “are here to do little more than be witness, should the written arrangement be satisfactory.”

The Duke takes on an air of insult, sputtering. “N' why should I? This is ridiculous, why should I be involved in this outright _stupid--_”

“Because,” Michael cuts in, firmly, finally setting the form down, “you are also meant to benefit from this.”

Hastur shuts up. “Whuh?”

“Look, here, in Article 3,” she continues, offering him the form for his own viewing. “For your part in witnessing, you will be provided any necessary assistance in maintaining control over two factions.”

“From who? _Him?_” Hastur nearly spits, squinting at the form before dropping it to gesture at Gabriel without even bothering to glance at the Archangel. (Gabriel has an eyebrow raised in his direction. For an insane fraction of a second, Beelzebub wants to laugh.)

Michael's voice is clear and icy. “From me.”

“_What?! _Why? No!”

Beelzebub cuts into Hastur's growing tirade, pinching the space between their brows and trying hard not to snarl. “It isn't meant to be an insinuation that you are _incapable_, Hastur. I am aware you are more than able to control both factions, as the demons were as good as yours in your union to Ligur.”

“Then you know this is--”

“_Rather,_” they continue, fiercely, hand flying from their face to shoot daggers at his face, “it is a necessity for protecting your claim from other Dukes. You know as well as I that respect for your claim is lacking. Should you sign as witness today, you would gain Michael's assistance, should it be necessary.”

“It _won't _be,” he snarls. “I cin take care of it.”

“Oh? You think you can continue doing so? It's been _eighteen months_ and already there have been fourteen disputes. You want to do this until the next War, you_ idiot_?”

“If I may,” comes the cut into the encroaching argument, startlingly gentle in the face of two snarling demons. They both turn, to find Michael, watching Hastur with brows drawn together and upward, mouth turned down. 

Later, Beelzebub will realize the expression she is wearing (openly wearing, without any hint of a poker face) is rather like remorse.

When Michael speaks, her voice is controlled, as it usually is, but there is an additional strain in her tone, like she's fighting to keep it so. “Duke Hastur. Ligur spoke of you, in our interactions.”

Hastur opens his mouth, but the angel continues, clearly trying to force out whatever is contained in her chest. Her brows pinch further.“He was a deeply intellectual ally, one whom I respected very much. His loss came as a painful surprise, and I understand that any emotional distress I feel pales in comparison to your own.”

Her eyes are on the table, corners crinkled, jaw tight from controlling her voice, to keep it from wavering more than it already has. Beelzebub gapes, startled, from the very blatant grief that paints itself across the angel's face (and it isn't much more than the fold of her brows and her set mouth, like Michael has no true experience expressing emotion, but it's still much more than they could ever expect from someone so contained). A glance at Hastur confirms his expression is one of similar shock, eyes wide and back straight, head tilted like he's listening closely for the punchline of a joke at his expense.

Even Gabriel looks caught off guard at his coworker's outburst. His hand rises uncertainly off the table, as though to place his hand on Michael's shoulder, before it falls again. In the ringing silence, she continues.

“I am here of my own volition, because I want to ensure that you keep all of what remains of Ligur, as is your right. I've no interest of trying to control the faction, or undermine your ruling, because Ligur trusted you. So I am willing to leave that to you.”

Her eyes are glittering when they lift from the table to meet his gaze. She swallows, and her voice wavers openly as she finishes.

“All I ask, is that if you need to defend what is yours, you allow me to honor Ligur's name by assisting you.”

Hastur's mouth opens and closes without sound, once again reminiscent of a croaking toad. Beelzebub looks between him and the angel across from him, holding their breath. 

“Awright,” the demon finally says eloquently. “F'Ligur worked with you, he had a good reason fer it. I trust his decisions.”

The Prince exhales, relieved. A glance at Gabriel confirms his own posture relaxing in his chair, eased.

With that, Michael's expression becomes schooled into a cool mask once more. Even so, Beelzebub sees her shoulders become a little less tense as she slides the forms back to them. “In such case, these seem sufficient for the purposes of the arrangement at hand. I would, however, prefer to discuss a termination clause, should the situation be settled amenably and the contract no longer necessary.”

Mouth a firm line, the Prince nods, fingers flourishing and withdrawing a sleek black pen to set to the paper. 

The rest of the meeting is muted conversation, detailing the final clauses and wording between Archangel and Prince, the lesser demon finally quiet. When the final copy is agreed upon, Beelzebub signs the form with a flourish of pen strokes, the final line a sharp run through the sigil of their name. Gabriel signs with similar nonchalance, as though he's not just signed himself to an embodiment of all he's meant to fight.

Michael signs, all business, and slides the form to Hastur, offering the pen. He takes it with no small bit of hesitance, glancing between the documents, the Prince, and Gabriel, the side of his mouth drawn up.

“Why's all this necessary? I mean, I get calmin' the infightin', but why this option?”

Beelzebub swallows, exchanging a look at Gabriel. He's watching them carefully, studying their expression, and he speaks for them. 

“It's a status quo thing. Heaven can't afford for the mediator from Hell to change suddenly, after six thousand years of communication and maintenance. That's too much work to start from scratch, so we need to do what we can to keep the power balances in Hell as they currently are. If that means providing the mediator a Consort as a means to stabilize their status and hold off threats, then it's something I'm willing to do on Heaven's behalf.”

There is something so professional, in how he puts it. It shouldn't sting to hear it so formally, as though he is acting only for Heaven's benefit (as though it wasn't his suggestion). They know the businesslike tone he uses is to maintain their own status quo—this balance between Opposite Sides, Good and Evil, that the pair of them breach when they're alone.

It still makes something cold trickle through their spine to hear.

(That's all he can ever be—an Angel, a part of Heaven, someplace they will never belong or want to be, and no matter how long he's in Hell, it's not for _them,_ he's not truly theirs. Someday he'll go back to Heaven, they'll stay in Hell, and when all is said and done they'll be on opposite sides, at each other's throats.

And that's fine. It's fine.)

Hastur nods slowly, and signs the form.

The deal is struck.

-

After the meeting, Michael and Hastur take their respective leaves (Hastur travels the shorthand method, quick and dirty, while the angel chooses to walk) and Beelzebub's fingers hook into Gabriel's sleeve with a claw-like grip that surprises even them. They don't look at him as he leads them to his tailor at their behest.

“But I like my suit,” Gabriel says with a little frown, while he is measured by a man who had greeted him warmly and then worked completely silently while Beelzebub paced the store, examining the fabric selection. “I don't see the problem with what I already wear, I look _good_ in it.”

They glance over their shoulder at him, fingers at their mouth, trying to distract themself with the task at hand. “Angel,” they say, trying to keep the word from sounding like a pet name, “as much as I like the thought of you standing out Downstairs in pristine white, your beloved suit _will_ gain stains that no miracle will be able to purge. I am attempting to prevent this.”

They look away from his bright smile, biting their teeth hard into their lower lip. From the swatches before them they begin to select dark gray squares of different weaves, which they set on the tailor's design table inelegantly. “These for the main display,” they say to the human with little preamble. 

“Hey, don't I get a say in the matter?” Gabriel jokes, turning on his stand, hands straightening the hem of his vest. Beelzebub shoots him a flat look that is answer enough. He puts his hands into the air in surrender and turns back to the mirror.

The tailor smiles at this display for some unknown reason, mixing swatches at his leisure and selecting lining for the Prince to nod at. 

“You're meant to exemplify _me_, so you must look befitting of the role,” they finally respond, crossing the room to circle Gabriel from behind, standing at his side to examine his profile. He scoffs gently, tilting his chin to look at them from down his nose.

“I'm not taking fashion advice from someone wearing fishnet socks.”

They bare their teeth. He wrinkles his nose and wiggles his face at them in mockery. (It looks something akin to an angry demon, in 1862, mocking the back of his exiting rival, it looks like “_obviously_” hissed sarcastically at ducks.)

Satan, Beelzebub wants to kiss him. They choose to fuss with his tie instead, straightening it, not meeting his gaze.

“Keep,” they start quietly, then clear their throat to speak louder, more authoritatively, “Keep the accents violet and lavender, like the tie.” They allow themself a single temptation, index finger brushing the edge of Gabriel's jaw. “It brings out his eyes.”

-

(And later, when Gabriel stands beside their throne, back straight and hands folded together, they can't help thinking that they were right; he looks spectacular in his dark gray suit, with thin lighter pinstripes, and lavender at his throat. He hovers at Beelzebub's side, quiet as he watches each demon come forward with their complaint.

They had offered him a seat, and he had declined, despite the fact these proceedings would take hours. Like this, standing just behind Beelzebub's throne, he looks like a sentinel when they peek up at him. Even in the dim light that tries to wash him out, Gabriel's face is haloed. He looks--

He looks the part of Prince's Consort. He looks beautiful.)


	2. addendums and amendments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gabriel needs to look the part of a Consort. The necessary requirements give him mixed feelings. Beelzebub is very open to compromise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: This chapter contains explicit sex that may not be to everyone's interest. It is, luckily, pretty much ENTIRELY skippable. Below is a link to the notes at the end, which contain a brief summary of the contents of the scene. If it's not to your interest, the scene is preceded by an asterisk (*) and ends at the break (-).

Beelzebub's quarters do not fit the same model that is seen in the business offices of Hell. In contrast to the cold, damp, cramped communal spaces, their rooms are low-lit and dry, reminiscent of the hotel rooms they have met Gabriel in on Earth. 

This is intentional. Preceding his arrival, Beelzebub had gone to great lengths to make the quarters they'd be sharing comfortable for him.

The rooms are spacious and warm, accented in deep reds and grays When Gabriel had first entered, a tension Beelzebub had pretended not to notice leaked out of his shoulders immediately. He had made himself comfortable, exploring the different rooms and testing the firmness of the mattress of the grand bed in the largest chamber.

Here, in this space, much of the pretense of power imbalance falls away in favor of the natural back and forth they share. Now, this moment, is not so different.

“I really don't see why that's necessary,” Gabriel is retorting, arms crossed over his chest, his mouth a firm line.

“Quit being _difficult, _angel,” Beelzebub snaps, pinching the space between their brows. “I have already told you, you are to be a reflection of _me_. Your appearance _must_ be taken care of, as it reflects my own status.”

“Nobody down here draws their wings out! How mine look shouldn't matter if they aren't going to be _seen_\--”

“It is the _principle_ of the thing!” they spit, closing the space between them to shove a finger into his chest. “Demons groom their wings, and Princes and Consorts pay particular attention to them! It is about _standards_!”

Nonplussed, Gabriel curls his hand over the one on his chest with a mild grimace. “Would you _relax_? It's not the _done_ thing in Heaven, Buzz, it's an aspect of vanity.”

“You _are_ a vain motherfucker, I don't see the issue,” Beelzebub shoots, and immediately backpedals at the way Gabriel's lips tighten. “Eurgh. Don't, I know, I know that's a sore topic. Forget I said it.”

“I _like_ looking good in my corporation,” he grumbles.

“I know, I know. I'm snapping, it izzn't intentional.”

The pair of them sigh, shooting dark looks at each other, before Beelzebub rocks back on their heels, placing space between them.

“Think of it as another aspect of looking good,” they begin slowly. “You wouldn't let a suit wrinkle.”

Gabriel growls out a huff of air, running a hand through his hair and finally dropping to sit on the bed. “I _get_ it, Buzz. It _matters_. It's just not a common occurrence on my part, and it's pretty drilled into angels to not pull them out in other angels' presence, and _especially_ not near demons unless it's for smiting them.”

“Ah,” Beelzebub says slowly. “It's a _trust_ thing. Apologies.”

He squints at them, mouth a crooked line of frustration. “Not intentionally. I trust _you_, Buzz.”

“Terrible decision,” they mumble, an old familiar fall back that makes him snort. He sighs softly, and unbuttons his vest and shirt, loosening his tie in a swift gesture that makes Beelzebub want to bite into the flesh of his throat. When his clothes are set aside, Gabriel finally relents, pulling the two wide wings out of the ether where they usually hide.

Beelzebub nearly recoils at the sight. “What the _fuck_, Gabe.”

“What?”

“What do you mean, _what?_”

Gabriel's wings are a mess, _far_ worse than Beelzebub had expected to see. They are a faded gray from lack of care, different values of dirty, with coverts out of place and barbs split. His alula, the wings around the joint of his bones, are deeply ruffled.

“Gabriel,” Beelzebub begins, horrified, “how often do you _groom_?”

He thinks on this, head tilting to one side. “Couple times a millennium, maybe?”

“No!”

“What?”

Their hands clench and unclench. Slowly, Beelzebub controls their emotions.

“You... I'm fixing this. Get undressed, we will be here a while.”

They turn their back and remove their jacket, rolling the sleeves of their shirt to their elbows and removing their tiepin to unbutton the collar of their shirt. As an afterthought, they undo the fastening of their trousers and let the fabric fall to their ankles, stepping out of them. When they turn back to the angel, he's fidgeting uncomfortably on the edge of the bed, the last of his clothes removed and his hands in his lap, fingers twisting together.

“Right,” they say, clambering onto the bed to sit up behind him. “Stay put while I work.” And then, as they begin to inspect the seam where wings meet the back, they grimace. “Angel, your preening gland is _swollen_. This may get invasive.”

“S'fine,” comes the rather hushed reply. They raise their eyebrows, glancing at the back of Gabriel's head. “I trust you.”

“Foolish,” they say automatically, pressing their fingers into the gland and wincing at the near burst of wing oil that pours out into their palm. 

Gabriel's body goes stiff as a board for a few seconds, before it relaxes into something loose and shuddery. He exhales loudly.

“Alright?” the Prince asks, beginning to pick carefully at the underside of his scapular feathers, and plucking a dead feather free. He nods somewhat frantically.

“Sensitive. _Really_—sensitive.”

Beelzebub smirks.

Slowly, with steady hands, they pick the dirt from his scapular feathers and use the wing oil to stroke the barbs straight again. They are thorough, moving from one wing to the other and using their pinky nail to loosen the dead feathers from their roots. Muscles in Gabriel's back twitch when their nail scratches at the flesh underneath, but he obediently stays in place, clearly trying to control his breathing.

The swollen gland slowly becomes less prominent, as the demon moves onto the lesser coverts and alula, petting the soft ruffles back into sleek shape. Their fingers on the joint of Gabriel's wings make him visibly tense, the muscles of his neck locked up. One of their hands slides to the nape of his neck, a firm pressure, stroking the space. “Breathe, angel. It will get easier from here.”

He makes a tiny noise, something like a whine or aborted moan. Beelzebub pauses, pulling their hands back.

They peek over his shoulder, and then chuckle. “Goodness. You're a _mess_.”

“Shut up,” Gabriel says between grit teeth, eyes screwed shut. He's trying to blatantly ignore the half-hard cock pressing into his thigh, his hands curled into fists on his mid thighs. “It's _really_ sensitive, okay?”

“Wouldn't be like this if you did them more often.”

He moans, though it's unclear whether that's due to Beelzebub's words, or their hands pressing into where scapular feathers turn to secondary coverts. His cock gives a tiny jerk. They press a kiss onto his shoulder, unbearably fond.

“Would you prefer I assist with your embarrassing little issue?” the demon teases lightly, offer genuine, if mocking.

“S'not _little_,” Gabriel mumbles, and his ears are wonderfully red and warm. (And he's right, in all honesty—he's always preferred a sizable Effort, which Beelzebub has mocked him for, but has always enjoyed.) “Nnn, no, we'll end up stopping over and over just to deal with my_ stupid_ arousal. I'll—I'll just turn it off, so you can finish.”

Overwhelmingly pleased, Beelzebub leans up on their knees and kisses his cheek over his shoulder. “Prioritizing wisely, I see. Well done.” From this angle, they can see his brief, tight smile, and the air shifts slightly as his Effort ceases to be, for the time being. With a pleased wiggle, Beelzebub settles back behind him, and gets back to work.

The exterior of the wings are swifter to finish, after that. The dirt at the roots comes loose with congealed oil, the barbs are straightened and the feathers smoothed into place, and the once gray wings are now a neat, ivory white, tipped with gold on the tips of the primaries. Satisfied, the demon sits back to inspect their work.

“Much better,” they say, tapping their chin. “Your axillaries and wing linings, now, and then we'll be done.”

They slide off the edge of the bed to circle Gabriel and face him. Even without the presence of genitalia, they can smell his arousal in the air, and his face is lined where his eyes are squeezed tight and his mouth is locked shut. He shudders, just barely, as their fingers slide into his axillary feathers to curl into their roots. 

“Breathe, you delicious little thing. Just a little bit more,” the Prince coos softly, kissing his forehead, unable to control themself. Oh, but he's so beautiful like this, shuddering and needy, but so well behaved. Despite his clear desire, Gabriel is holding himself taut, obeying their command to stay, to let them work. 

It's gorgeous, and Beelzebub can't help feeling alight with joy. It's rare that Gabriel submits and obeys so willingly when they are alone. He loves to try to overpower them, to tower over them and pin them, to never take them seriously. Here, he's done away with it, allowing them to control him, holding him in the palm of their hand. 

He's astoundingly fragile, like this. Beelzebub would not dare let him break.

“Finished,” they finally say, tucking the final coverts into places. “Well done, pet. You look every bit the grand Archangel you are.”

It's a true statement, though not just for the fact that his wings are pristine white once more, grand and sleek. It's his posture, the line of tension down the length of spine and the way his head is bent down. He looks almost to be praying, save for the veins that stand out from the skin of his forearms, for the clench of his fists. Beelzebub knows that if they were to uncurl his fingers, they'd find perfect little crescent moon indents in his palms.

Desire slides down the length of their back, coiling in their stomach and flaring in their chest where their heart would be. He's _beautiful _like this, and the Prince can't help but finally give him the relief he so desperately needs. They cup his face in their hands, tilting it up to meet their gaze.  
*  
“My angel. Make your Effort, you've earned your reward for behaving so perfectly.”

Gabriel's eyes flash open to meet their own, and in the violet they can see the utter _relief_, his brows drawn up to confirm their permission before he inhales sharply and lets out a breath that lets his shoulders droop. Between his thighs, the flesh shifts and forms quickly, like a rubber band has finally snapped. The demon steps back, unbuttoning their shirt fully, to examine their work.

They tilt their head, surprised.

“Angel?”

Gabriel whines from their gaze and inaction, thighs shifting together in seek of friction. In place of his usual girthy cock, he has manifested a darkly flushed vulva, its swollen clit peeking from its hood under a mess of curls. “M'sorry, sorry,” he says, voice high and reedy, “I'm just so fucking—everything is so _sensitive,_ my gut's just been _twisting,_ it came out like this. I can, I can change it, I'm sorry, I just feel so _empty--_”

Whatever constitutes as blood in Beelzebub's body roars in their ears. They suddenly feel starving, desperate to touch, to hold, to cradle this stupid precious _gift_ on their bed. They are alight with arousal and joy, unable to help themself from holding his face again, peppering kisses on his cheeks, meeting his bleary gaze. His eyes are damp with shame and need. Beelzebub feels something in their chest _howl._

“My poor pathetic angel,” they croon, smile wide and predatory. “You need it ssssso badly, hm? It's an aching, bone deep desire to be _touched._”

The angel nods frantically under their palms, his face beautifully flush. He looks so relieved to be so understood, because if there's one thing Beelzebub understands, it's desire.

“Not to worry. I'm going to fill that ache right up,” they hiss, gentle, dangerous. “I'll give you _everything_ you need.”

Their thumb strokes his cheek tenderly. They wonder, casually, as one hand wanders down his chest to his clit, if they can make him cry.

Even as they touch the swollen bud, they feel it spasm; Gabriel gasps loudly, caught off guard at the sensation, and Beelzebub can imagine his new insides clenching down, searching, gripping nothing.

Their mouth waters. They stroke his clit gently, circling it once, twice, before sliding their hand lower, fingers spreading his labia to feel his folds.

“My _word_, pet, you're ssssoaking,” they tease into his ear, feeling him shiver. Their voice is steady, deceptively so, for the hunger threatening to overtake them. The statement is not an exaggeration; the angel's lips and slit are already incredibly slick, already spread for their fingers. They lick their lips, a low growl in the back of their throat at the knowledge that this is for _them._

They did this to him. He's manifested this wet, dripping thing because of their actions. It's an incredible amount of control to hold over him—more than they know what to do with. They struggle to keep the power from going to their head, instead desperately focusing on the tiny noises slipping out of his open mouth.

With astonishing ease, Beelzebub slides two slim fingers into Gabriel's cunt, feeling him start and clench down immediately on the digits. He's already so easy to slip into, that even as he tries to grip their fingers, they nudge them deeper, all the way to the final knuckle. They click their tongue, holding him like that for a moment. “Sssso sssssensitive. Have you ever come from thisssss?” 

“Nn, nuh,” Gabriel responds weakly, in a daze. The demon curls their fingers wickedly, petting his insides, and he nearly _writhes. “Fuck!”_

Oh Satan, something sings in their head. Oh, _Satan_. Has he ever even manifested this Effort before? He writhes under their fingers, and they can only think, probably not. The thought makes something in their chest ache with terrible fondness. They smile unbearably bright, startlingly overjoyed, and kiss him on the mouth for a fraction of a moment, before stroking the bundle of nerves inside him _once_ and withdrawing their fingers. Their hand is now soaked almost to the wrist when they press the digits back to his clit. “Sssso many thingssss to try out for the firssst time.”

With that statement, they're almost unkind to the bud in how they firmly circle and finger it, unrelenting, harsh. Gabriel scrabbles to grip their upper arms to keep himself upright, fingers curled tightly into the fabric of their sleeves, his hips rocking into their touch, chanting in gasps, “_fuck, fuck, fuck_.” 

They can feel his clit spasming, can feel how he grows tenser and tenser, until his hips all but stay pressed against their hand. Grinning, Beelzebub delivers the final blow in one rough flick and stroke from the base of his clit to its hood, and Gabriel comes, breath going out of him in a noise like a wheeze, like he's been struck. His legs stay tense for a long moment, hips pressed upwards, before they fall back onto the mattress. 

Beelzebub keeps their hand on his cunt, though they circle the little nub with much lighter strokes, feeling the gentle tensing and relaxing of Gabriel's thighs and abdomen. His grip on their arms has gone looser, breath ragged. He makes a small noise, a little keen as he tries to lean away from their hand, to no real avail.

“I—nn—sensitive.”

“You know what I like about this setting?” Beelzebub asks him conversationally, and he misses their wicked smile with his eyes closed.

“Mm?”

“Built in lack of refractory period.”

“Wh--”

They thrust their fingers back into his cunt and Gabriel actually shouts, head thrown back. Immediately, he clenches on their hand, but he's helpless to stop them from curling the pads of their fingers directly over the new set of nerves just under his abdomen. When they press their other hand flat over his belly, he can _feel_ their hands pushing against each other, and Gabriel can't seem to help the litany of high noises that fall out of him.

It takes almost no time to wrench that orgasm from him, sensitive as he is from the first. The third takes a little bit of work, simply because Beelzebub opts to ignore their previous ministrations to the tender nerves, in favor of simply thrusting their fingers into Gabriel, as deep as they can go. They can feel how easily his body _gives_ for them, this setting designed _only_ for them, and their pace manages to quicken despite how their wrist wants to cramp. 

They fuck him hard with just their two fingers, so forceful it actually has him nearly moving back on the bed, throwing his hands back to maintain his spot on the edge. Oh, he's so good, staying in place still, still following that order, despite all they've done to break him apart.

Pleased, proud, the Prince kisses him hard, biting into his lower lip and tearing a cry out from the mix of shaking pleasure and sharp pain. When Gabriel comes, his legs are in the air, spread wide to give Beelzebub the best access, and his head is thrown back for them to bite into his throat. They litter vicious bruises along the skin there, tearing noises out of him that sound very much like _“Yes! Yes! Yes!”_

He looks perfect. He looks a feast.

When all words finally fade into little more than panting and gasping, Beelzebub slides their fingers out of his still-twitching slit and pops the slick digits into their mouth. The taste of Gabriel's arousal, his own musk, and the barely-there sting of holy Love goes directly to their own swirling desire—to _devour._

And who are they to continue denying their base desire? Their _deadly sin?_

Without preamble, they drop to their knees between his thighs, throwing their arms over his hips. They meet Gabriel's eyes when his head drops in surprise at the swift action, and grin, their sharp teeth bared. He inhales sharply, eyes going wide.

“I'm going to make you _scream_, you delectable little angel.”

Unbidden, the angel's hands drop onto Beelzebub's shoulders, curling and uncurling into the starched fabric. Paying him no mind, they press their tongue to the bottom of his slit and lick a wide stripe over it, up to the hood of his tender clit. He keens, upper body curling over their head and calves trying to fold together on their back. His actions are as good as ignored—Beelzebub is far too focused on his taste, on the sheer _amount_ of slick dripping out of his labia.

It's with a single-mindedness verging on the edge of obsession that they lap at his entrance and folds, that they tongue his clit and suck hard on the little bud, worrying it gently with just the barest hint of teeth. The grip on their shirt tightens, barely noticed, though they perceive faintly how Gabriel does not try to force them further into his mound, or direct them in any way.

Good _boy_, the demon thinks, rewarding him with another wide strip of their tongue along his cunt, bottom to top, before returning to his leaking entrance and _sucking_.

Gabriel's spine reverses its orientation from where it has curled over their body, throwing itself back, head thrown towards the ceiling as he just about _screams_. Under their hands, Beelzebub can feel his hips trying to rock up into their mouth, and they tighten their grip to keep him in place. But oh, how he struggles, making noises that just barely verge on coherent, babbling, begging.

“Fuck fuck fuck _Bee_ oh god oh fuck I'm coming I'm coming—ah ah _ah ah--_”

They think, distantly, it's like drinking from a bottomless cup. Gabriel gushes when he comes, fluid that Beelzebub laps at and swallows, trying to claim it all but feeling the sheer excess soak their lower chin. They lick the salt from their bottom lip and dive back in, nose pressed to his clit as they force their tongue flat against his slit again. His whole body shudders from the contact, cunt still clenching just under the flat of their tongue, still leaking ambrosia for them to drink down.

When Beelzebub pulls their face away, it is to release his hips, to press their hands to the angel's spread thighs, thumbs holding the lips of his cunt wide open. His cute little slit parts and spreads with the lips, a delectable little o that they cover again with their mouth to drink from. When their jaw twinges from suckling, they let their tongue roll out, into him, and let the flat of it stroke up against the wet walls, trying to reach the flesh that rests behind the clit. Gabriel shrieks, and comes again.

_More_, the Prince of Gluttony thinks to themselves wildly. _I need more._

Time passes there, with their head between his legs, as they wrench orgasm after orgasm from their overstimulated pet with their tongue, lost in the fog of their own hunger. When it finally clears enough for them to gather themself again, Gabriel has fallen backwards, his upper body across the bed, legs still splayed over the side on each side of their shoulders. He's panting heavily, muscles in his thigh twitching beside their face when they finally pull away from his slit. They suckle his clit one final time, bordering on the edge of a kiss, before getting to their feet.

They wobble and wipe their mouth, unsteady, and then strip their pants off, before looking over the angel, their gut twisting hard in desire. He looks _beautiful,_ weak and compliant. His thighs, spread on either side of Beelzebub's hips when they step closer, are covered in small love bites from the moments Beelzebub had nipped the skin. His face is flush down to his chest, which is heaving.

They draw their sharp nails down his abdomen, which flexes as he gasps. “F-fuck, Bee, God,” Gabriel hisses, barely a whisper, voice hoarse. His hips jump, once. Beelzebub licks their lips.

“Want to fuck you,” they say, and are caught off guard at their own voice, their dry mouth and raspy throat. They sound so undone, and beneath them, their angel whines harshly, high and needy. “You like that? Want me fucking you open, angel? Touching you _deep?”_

His nodding is frantic, eyes near shut from the lust. With a fumble of a motion, Beelzebub pulls their harness from the ether, unwilling to travel the few feet it would take to pull it from under the bed manually—unwilling to part from him. The sleek, slim toy receives the same treatment, and it's instinct driving them to slide it into place, less than any mental dedication to the task. They're too drawn into Gabriel's little whimper at the sight of it, resting against their pelvis.

“Oh, god,” he whispers, eyes sliding shut when they hunch over him, rutting slowly against his abdomen, nudging his clit and making his hips jerk. Beelzebub grins. “God, please, _please._”

“Hush, pet,” they whisper soothingly, running a palm over his abdomen before thumbing the lips of his cunt open one-handed to line the toy up. “Here I am.”

They set a hand firmly on the juncture where his hip meets his thigh, and they thrust in to the hilt.

He _wails._

Immediately, Beelzebub fucks him at a brutal pace, keeping him in place with their tight grip on his hips. Underneath them, his body is wracked with tremors; with every thrust into him, he shouts again, again, barely more than loud exhalations of “ah! Ah!” His back arches upward off the bed when the toy nudges the nerves inside him, hips tilting instinctively to try to aim each down-stroke _there._

They can feel the way his body resists letting them withdraw, from the thighs squeezing their waist to the flex and tension of his abdominal muscles. It's as though his body is desperate to keep the toy inside him, and though Beelzebub can't physically feel the clench and release of Gabriel's cunt, they can sense the effort it takes for them to pull back, can see how his hips buck after them, trying to keep them locked inside.

He looks utterly debauched, flushed and wailing, thighs straining from their spread around Beelzebub's waist. He fists their deep red sheets, head thrown back and eyes glassy, damp. The demon's mouth goes slack at the sight, before their grip on his hip tightens and their thrusts become more wild, out of sync, hard and fast. Thoughtlessly, one of their thumbs slide to his mound and flicks the underside of his clit harshly.

He screams, throwing a hand over his eyes as he comes hard around the still thrusting toy, and they can hear their name in that scream. They can see the dampness slipping out the corner of his eyes, they swear they can _feel_ Gabriel clenching down on the toy like it's their cock, like it's a part of them. His hips stay locked in the air, trying to keep the Prince buried to the hilt, and somehow, _somehow,_ something in the Prince of Hell gives.

They push in as deep as they can get into that willing body, their thighs and buttocks tensed, hips twitching forward while their mind reaches an apex and crests over it in the semblance of an orgasm they shouldn't have been able to reach. Despite the lack of manifested genitalia, Beelzebub feels the rush of the high, their little frame nudging forward, as though trying to release into the cunt their toy is buried in.

It's a deeper bliss than that of a regular orgasm, not just focused in their hips and abdomen. It's like breaching the surface of an ocean and taking a full breath of fresh air, the entire body relaxing in gratitude. Their mind reels and recovers slowly, still barely thrusting forward, chasing the last of the rush.

“B—Buzz?” comes a soft whimper of a whisper. Groaning, Beelzebub blinks slowly, and they gather their senses, letting the last of the pulsing bliss drift out of reach.

Gabriel is peeking up at them between wet lashes, hair fussed and an arm thrown over his head. He's panting, a hand curling and uncurling in the sheet underneath him. Belatedly, Beelzebub realizes how they're still deep in him, their hands tight enough on his hips to leave bruises. They pull out carefully, and his whole body relaxes, drooping into the bed.

Panting, Beelzebub slides the harness and slick toy off their waist, and then drop into the mattress beside him, face down, exhausted, astounded. There is a long moment where the only noises are the sounds of the supernatural beings catching their breaths.

“I don't think I can walk,” Gabriel finally says quietly. His voice is hoarse and scratchy, but he sounds distinctly pleased, even blissful. “_Fuck_, Bee, you turned my legs to jelly. We have to do that again sometime.”

Beelzebub makes a faint noise of acknowledgment and agreement, unmoving from their position, cheek buried into the firm bedspread.

“How did you even manage to come without an effort?”

The noise they make is faint, like a whimper, and when Gabriel reaches out for them, hands on their back, they go willingly, curling into his chest and tucking their face into his neck.

“Okay. Rest. Holy fuck, Buzz. You earned it.”

-

Much later, in the grand bed and the low light, they're tucked into the sheets properly. Beelzebub's shirt has been pulled off their shoulders so Gabriel can pull them to lay on his chest and rub circles into the muscles of their back. The spooning here is, Beelzebub would argue, Gabriel's preference entirely, but there is a comfort to having their head on his warm, firm chest, feeling it rise and fall steadily. His fingers stroke their knotted hair, run down the bumps of their scars. It's soothing.

“You know, in Western society on earth, humans have all these dumb little rituals to tie partners together?”

You know, up until the idiot starts trying to start a conversation, they think fuzzily, butting their head under his chin.

“Tch,” they say in a groggy manner. “Matrimony. Bloody white gowns and oaths to the Almighty about eternal love. You want to talk about Western wedding rituals? In Scotland, the two that are to be wed are covered in rotted substances by their community. Must have been one of ours,” they add, as an afterthought. Gabriel flicks their forehead very lightly in reprimand.

“Don't be _weird,_ Buzz. I'm pretty sure Henna was one of ours, though.”

“Yes, I remember,” they say with a little stretch, settling on top of Gabriel with their arms crossed on his sternum, chin rested on top of them to meet his eye. “Brides wishing to bear marks like angels do.”

“Nice, right? I think Uriel gave them that one, back in Egypt.” His little grin, the wrinkles at the corner of his eyes, makes Beelzebub want to smile back. “You know, I always wanted to ask—was that Spanish tradition, with the brides wearing black, one of yours?”

The Prince wrinkles their nose, thinking it over. “The demon Crowley's, I think. Idiot was obsessed with fashion.”

“Hey, can't blame him. They do some wild things with fabric.”

Beelzebub squints at him. “Weren't your lot the ones to make a fuss over mixing threads?”

“Uuuugh, don't bring that up,” he groans, rolling his eyes back. “I swear, you try to give a guy tailor advice _one_ time.”

They chuckle, delighted at his misery, and settle back into his chest. Gabriel's hands return to running down the length of their spine, making them sigh comfortably. For a few moments, the room returns to peaceful quiet, before, unable to contain their curiosity, Beelzebub prompts him.

“Why the subject of matrimonial traditions?”

They feel the rumble from his lungs as he hums, in thought. “I was just thinking about the whole rings business that's very big in most cultures now, I think. They're pretty stylish, you know?”

He's going for nonchalance, they can tell, and they don't call him on it. Instead, Beelzebub sits up and smirks at him, brow raised. “Ooooh, you want a _ring_, angel? You want a clear sign that I own you? I can get you a cute little collar with a little tag that reads “property of Lord of Flies”. You like that?”

Gabriel snorts (and fuck, it's precious when he snorts. It's unflattering and perfect), rolling his eyes. “Hard pass. Look, if it's such an awful idea, then just tell me to shut up, you little monster.” 

His hand rests on the nape of their neck, stroking. Beelzebub's grin sharpens, a little leer. “No, no, I like this thought.” They tap their chin with a finger. “A clear sign on your personage that you're my consort. That you belong to _me_.”

Their tone is teasing, bordering on nasty, but Gabriel's responding smile is small and soft, too soft for Beelzebub's comfort. His thumb strokes the upturn of their mouth, around the apple of their cheek. “Yeah,” he says. “I do.”

His tone is honest, agonizingly honest. Beelzebub squirms, ducking their head away from his gaze. They scowl deeply, flicking his chin. “Don't be a sentimental fool. You know I hate that.”

There's a huff of a sigh. “I know,” he says, sounding how a child would, when their parent tells them for the sixth time to clean their room. Even so, his tone still manages to carry that utter fondness, hands still soft on their skin. “You wanna sleep, Buzz? I can rub your back out, if you like.:

Utterly grateful to edge away from the tender moment, Beelzebub purrs gratefully, rolling off Gabriel's chest to stretch out beside him. “Yeesssss. Lovely as my throne is, it's like sitting on a _brick_.”

“Poor thing,” the angel teases, sitting up, putting his hands on their lower back. “You must be _so_ sore.”

And, like this, the matter is dropped, with all the baggage it carries. Gabriel doesn't bring it up again.

Yet, like a parasite, the thought crawls into Beelzebub's head, and stays there, consuming, growing. Refusing to be forgotten.

-

The thing is--

It's like this: Gabriel is an angel. Even now, here in Hell, away from Grace, he's not Fallen. But the longer he's here, away from Heaven's Light, the more they fear the long lasting effects. 

Beelzebub knows he loves them. They can't sense it as an angel or empath would, but they know what the tenderness means. They're more familiar with it than any demon would know, because they find their own tenderness in the most locked away part of their soul, small, vulnerable, and utterly unfitting of a Prince of Hell.

This is a weakness, a chink in armor, and they fear for Gabriel's Grace every time he smiles at them. _Don't_, they want to shriek. _Don't Fall from this. Don't let me make you Fall._ And they shouldn't want him to stay Holy—they should actively tempt him into it, or at the very least, not care. But they know what will happen if he Falls, because they've lived it. 

If Gabriel Falls, it will hurt him, inside and out, burning away any tenderness he's ever shown them. He would finally be accessible to Beelzebub without any risk to their status, and he would never stop resenting them for it. They would deserve it.

They can't let him Fall, can't let Heaven's warmth leave him. The _why _of that evades them, eludes them, or at the very least, they refuse to face it head on. It doesn't matter, the reason that the thought fills them with a paralyzing fear. What matters is keeping the fear at bay

Almost every other day, Beelzebub demands to preen him. In their work they check meticulously for any sign of darkened feathers, patches falling away to expose sick skin. Every hunt, they find nothing, and they slump, overwhelmed by a relief so powerful it makes their whole body relax. On nights when Gabriel fucks up into them, they cup his face and stare hard into his eyes, just to find the violet.

And yet, they are a contrary creature, filled with selfish desires and possessive thoughts. They can't help their nature. After long consideration, Beelzebub gets Gabriel a ring; a dark steel band, with crushed black tourmaline and opal shot through the heart of its circumference. It's their black wings, their blue eyes, resting on his left ring finger. _Theirs_.

[(source)](https://www.etsy.com/listing/634772784/wedding-ring-promise-ring-stainless?ga_search_query=black%2Btourmaline&ref=shop_items_search_2&pro=1&frs=1)

-

Meetings with Michael have been consistent, bimonthly mediation sessions that allow Beelzebub to become more familiar with the Archangel. She is not as expressive as Gabriel; indeed, she is far more strict with their sessions, more professional and less dry humored. That said, she is more than capable and surprisingly easy to work with. Her base knowledge of the situation Downstairs makes filling in context for the updates unnecessary, unlike working with an Archangel with no knowledge of the political structure.

Beelzebub would not say that they prefer working with her over mediation with Gabriel, for Gabriel's capability to understand the level of pressure being in a position of authority can bring. Also the sex but that's an entirely different thing that has little to do with mediation other than convenience. Still, it is a useful excuse to leave their bed earlier than they usually would.

They pull themself out of Gabriel's embrace with ridiculous care, allowing themselves one single soft stroke through his sex mussed hair, before they begin to dress. He's not truly asleep, they know, trying to be quiet anyway. They are supernatural beings don't need it, and he's not one to partake in Sloth, but he seems more than happy to doze, smiling pleasantly in Beelzebub's direction, eyes still closed. He hums when they run their fingers through his hair one moment more, and leans into their palm, but doesn't open his eyes when they pull back.

Beyond all logic and terror and paranoia, Beelzebub wants terribly to kiss him before they leave.

They do not.

Hours ahead of schedule, the Prince ascends the escalator out of Hell and steps out onto the mortal plane, straightening their lapels and swiftly exiting the building.

They have a prior engagement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> During Beelzebub's grooming Gabriel, he is sensitive enough to become half hard. They offer to assist and he decides instead to get rid of the Effort entirely.  
After they finish grooming him, they tell him to bring it back so they can reward him. To their surprise, Gabriel manifests a vulva. Beelzebub, pleased, fingers him, eats him out, and fucks him with a strap on, until he cries from overstimulation. The scene affects Beelzebub so much their body achieves orgasm without having a manifested Effort. [back to top](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21288287/chapters/50691728#main)


	3. the termination clause

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beelzebub attends two separate meetings. Michael gets a call from Hastur.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: there is a single paragraph in this chapter that describes flies manifesting and crawling in unpleasant places. It is preceded and followed by an asterisk (*).  
I hope you enjoyed this fic! I love this world I've been developing, where the thing that ends up changing supernatural beings the most is Love. Please let me know if you'd like to see more, or have ideas. Otherwise, I am labeling this series as Finished for now.

Aziraphale is having a good day. He and Crowley have just finished lunch at a pleasant little hole in the wall restaurant that serves scrumptious Italian cuisine and smooth gelato dessert, and it is close enough to the shop that they have walked the distance. This is a relief on his poor human heart, which does not need to beat but still chooses to jump up into his throat when Crowley goes 95 through London's district business. Crowley is walking him back to the shop, hand curled almost shyly around Aziraphale's.

It has been almost two years since the failed Apocalypse. They have been holding hands consistently since the night they managed to survive—on the bus, Crowley had sat down, his hand turned upward on his knee, and Aziraphale had taken it, and that was that. In the time since, they have been openly, deeply, embarrassingly, _publicly_in love. Aziraphale has thrown as much of his shame to the wind as he can manage in such a small window of time (shame, not of Crowley, never of Crowley, but of himself, wired into his utter essence, that he tries to make up for every second of every day). Crowley, for his part, has been both a roguish flirt and a stuttering, doting fool the entire time.

The angel can't blame his stumbling and nervousness, certainly, nor can he blame how Crowley's grip goes from painfully tight to twitchy and loose, as if prepared to tear it back with all the speed of a striking snake. Six thousand years of holding one's hand out to someone, and being burned again and again by that person, would make anyone afraid. So he tightens his grip in those moments, to keep Crowley there, so the demon can know that the warmth of Aziraphale's palm isn't going to burn, this time.

In any case. Aziraphale is having a lovely day, on a lovely walk after a lovely lunch, holding his _very_ lovely boyfriend's lovely hand, and it takes an incredible amount of willpower to try to not feel put out at the sight of the demon that is currently darkening his shop's doorstep.

The Prince of Gluttony is leaning against the wooden double doors, their arms crossed over their chest. Their mouth is a tight tense line. It's less of a lurk and more of a brood, the angel thinks.

At his side, Crowley bristles, fingers twitching. Aziraphale tightens his grip on his hand. _Steady on._

“Do correct me if I'm wrong, but I believed it was implied that you weren't welcome here,” he states quite calmly, halting several feet from the corner, where they hover. He straightens primly, trying to exude the role of Guardian of Eastern Gate, a role he has failed to exude since the creation of the position. “I'm not planning on selling you any of my works today. Rather, any day.”

Beelzebub glowers at him, then directs their gaze to Crowley, who is very sweetly (in Aziraphale's opinion) attempting to put himself between angel and Prince, shoulders tilted to keep Aziraphale's hand in his own while he takes the line of fire. “Beelzebub,” he greets with a tight smile that more resembles a baring of teeth. “Thought I made it clear I'd prefer to be left alone.”

The Prince sneers, exposing one long canine under the drawn back lips. “Treacherouzzz zznake,” they say in way of greeting. “I'm not here for you.”

Crowley stiffens, body pulling back, closer and more in front of Aziraphale, clearly caught off guard. “Sorry,” he says, stumbling around the word, “what?”

“I'm here to talk to the angel.”

At that, Crowley looks back to exchange a look with Aziraphale, who shrugs at him. _I don't know either. Don't assume I do. _ Beelzebub makes an impatient, deeply irritated noise, tapping their shoe on the topmost step to the shop as though in a rush.

“I swear on my crown as Prince of Hell, Lord of Flies, that I do not seek to bring harm to either of you traitors on this day,” they say, pinching the skin between their brows. “I merely wish to question the angel on...” here, they pause, considering their words with great care. “...delicate matters.”

There's another thoughtful pause, and then they tip their head, seeming to think something over, before they add conversationally, “I mean, I can't make any promises for next week, but I haven't penciled anything into my planner just yet in regards to you two. If that means anything.”

Aziraphale mimics the motion, tilting his head just a touch, scrunching his nose. “Why do you have a planner?”

Crowley coughs a little sheepishly at his side. “One of mine,” he mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck.”

“Oh, my dear,” he can't help responding, both a reproach and a fond exclamation.

Beelzebub twists their mouth, looking deeply disgusted. “You two are sickening to watch. _Aziraphale_,” they finally say, rolling his name in their mouth. “May I speak with you, or not?”

Primly, the angel squares his shoulders, falling back to his tried and true expression that Crowley calls his “holier than thou face”. He finally releases Crowley's hand, to squeeze his upper arm once. “Whatever you have to say to me, you may say in front of my partner.” _Partner,_ he thinks a little giddily. “Let's at _least_ take this to a more private setting, shall we?”

The chagrined demon steps aside to allow Aziraphale to unlock the shop door. He does not pause to give them, or the slack jawed expression Crowley is burning into the back of his neck, a glance, choosing instead to hold the door open politely. “After you.”

The Prince enters swiftly. Crowley hesitates at the door frame, leaning towards the angel to whisper, unable to hide his anxiety, “Are you sure about this, angel?”

“Dear,” Aziraphale responds, his voice lowered but firm as he cups Crowley's cheek and runs his thumb over the jut of bone, “I think we are _more_ than capable of taking care of ourselves in this instance. In any case, I'm rather curious.”

He smiles, fluttering his eyelids. “Indulge me?”

As always, the phrasing and expression make Crowley crack, unable to contain his crooked, painfully fond smile. “Always.” He steps into the shop, hands in his pockets. Aziraphale follows him in, and locks the door once more.

He leads Beelzebub into the backroom, gesturing for them to sit on the couch that is usually Crowley's to stretch and lounge on. Immediately, he adopts the manner of host that he usually saves for customers and men attempting to convince him to sell his store. “Let's make this swift, shall we?”

Crowley snorts.

(When it is just the two of them, in this space crafted for comfort, Aziraphale is happy to offer tea, or coffee, or wine or whiskey or whatever else Crowley might desire. It's warmer than the main shop, and Aziraphale himself is a warmer person. For people Aziraphale can't stand? There's no such English respect granted to them. Why, by British standards, he might as well be spitting in their face!)

“Yes. Thank you.” This seems ground out between clenched teeth, and Beelzebub sits, back straight and hands on their knees in tiny pale fists. They swallow, staring at the patterned carpet, eyes flicking briefly up to him and then back down once more. It dawns on Aziraphale that the demon looks uncomfortable. Awkward, even. “Before I begin my main line of questioning, a clarification, if you please. You are a Principality now?”

Aziraphale sighs, sitting back into his usual plush wing-back chair. It creaks just a touch, dating back to Charles III, as he rests his elbow on the armrest, gesturing a little, a vague hand wave. “I was verbally demoted, yes, after the humans were cast out of Eden,” he states matter-of-factly, before resting his chin on his raised hand to inspect them.

“I wazzz unaware,” the demon says simply, without further prompting. An uncomfortable silence falls. Crowley, who is leaning on the wall behind the angel, clears his throat a little to fill the space. Aziraphale can't see his face, but he can hear the curiosity and confusion in his voice when he speaks. 

“You were a Cherub, yeah?”

“Yes,” both Prince and Principality say at the same moment. The silence falls again as they stare at each other.

“I...” Crowley begins hesitantly, sounding like he'd rather have taken the question back from the air. “I was talking to the angel.”

Beelzebub visibly swallows, eyes returning to the carpet.

“Wait,” Crowley says, startled realization leaking into his voice as the silence stretches. Aziraphale feels his shoulders tense, sees Beelzebub's shoulders do the same, creeping closer to their ears. “You were a _Cherub_? You—did you two know ea--”

“_Yes_,” comes the sharp reply from both supernatural beings, again, at the same moment, in the same pitch. The Prince's head swiftly snaps up to stare at the demon.

“It izz of no matter!” They state, voice nearing a tone of panic. “Do not think of it, traitor.”

“I see the need for delicacy, now,” Aziraphale says quietly. He's not trying to tease, but Beelzebub shoots a look in his direction that would set a human aflame.

“It izzzn't relevant,” they say defensively. “I wazzzz merely asking becauzzze--” They pause, bite hard on their tongue, and then continue. “I wished to know if, perhaps, the demotion was caused by a loss of the Almighty's Grace.”

Crowley sputters from behind Aziraphale, deeply offended in the angel's stead. Aziraphale holds up a hand to calm him, looking very closely at the small creature on his couch, who's hunching up again.

“No, I don't think that's the case,” he begins calmly, unbothered. “I was quite happy for it, to be entirely honest.” He drops his hand back into his lap. “Principalities were granted far more access to the Earth, as they were assigned to different empires across the planet. I believe the Almighty might have considered this after Eden fell, since I was eager to continue protecting humans. To my knowledge, I am still able to assume that form, and have not lost any level of Grace.”

Beelzebub nods slowly, absorbing this, the corner of their mouth drawn in. It's clear that they are forming another question, turning it in their head, trying to find the best way to voice it.

When they begin, it is very slowly, each word carefully chosen.

“I want to make it clear that this next question is not meant in any level of offense. It is not an attempt or gesture to be cruel, if you may believe such a thing capable from me. It is, however, nearly impossible to ask in a delicate matter. I will be frank with you.”

Aziraphale nods, gesturing for them to continue. He has predicted the question before it has exited their mouth, and sits back as they gather the courage to voice it.

“How is it that you have not Fallen, Aziraphale?”

“Alright,” Crowley snaps harshly, striding past Aziraphale's chair towards the Prince, as though he intends to throw them out of the book shop by the collar if necessary. “You've said more than enough, I've think. He's been too bloody generous as it is.”

Quickly, Aziraphale rises out of his chair to reach out and grab Crowley's elbow firmly, stopping him mid-stride. “My _dear_,” he begins, his voice firm. “I am more than happy to have you present for this conversation, but you _must_ be able to contain your temper, or I _will_ tell you to sit out in the shop and wait while I finish back here.”

“_Angel!_” his demon protests, though he knows better than to struggle out of Aziraphale's grip. “I'm not about to stand here idly while my old boss asks you—nn—impolite questions! _You_,” he says, turning his body back towards Beelzebub, “this isn't any of your business, am I clear? Bugger off.”

“_Crowley_,” the angel says. “I insist. Control yourself, or wait in the shop.”

Silently, they glower at each other, moments ticking by slowly and full of tension. The silence is broken by the softest of buzzing, emanating from the demon on the couch. Aziraphale tilts his head minutely to examine them. From the looks of it, the buzzing is involuntary, even anxious.

“Pleazzze,” Beelzebub finally says, very carefully. “Allow me this one offense, Cra—Crowley. I am aware of your... relationship,” they continue, mouth twisting a little around the word, as though it is unfamiliar. “I am... trying to know how an angel can love a demon and not Fall for it. It seems...”

They trail off, hands curling into the fabric bunched at their knees. Their head is tipped away from the pair, focused instead somewhere to the side, towards the floor. Sighing, Aziraphale releases Crowley's sleeve, and drops back into his seat. Crowley straightens slowly, patting down his lapels, and then slinks towards the angel's chair. There, he leans hard against the wing-back seat, his arms crossed, trying to impress an idea of protectiveness over its owner.

Beelzebub looks back at them, their expression nearly nostalgic at the sight. They look at the scene, as though seeing somebody else, sitting in a chair with a tall back, with their own guard hovering beside it.

“It's all a bit ineffable,” Aziraphale begins with a small smile, ignoring Crowley's quiet groan. “It's unclear if it's because I still love and believe in the Almighty, despite no longer believing in the Great Plan, or, if perhaps it's because love in itself is the most powerful gift She's given any of us.”

Crowley's fingers fall to touch his shoulder. Aziraphale covers them with his own, keeping the warm hand there against him. He can't help but touch, and keep him close.

“Perhaps it's both,” he continues. “I believe in Her, and I love my demon with all my heart, and there's no sin in Love.”

The Prince visibly relaxes in their seat, shoulders dropping all tension, like a marionette with its strings cut. “Oh,” they mumble, “thank _everything_.”

The grip on Aziraphale's shoulder tightens just a bit, more firmly. Bastard that the angel is, he can't help but ask, all innocence, “Is this about your union with the Archangel Gabriel?”

In the span of a heartbeat, the tension returns to the demon—they straighten in their seat, rigid, as though struck by lightning. “How in the _fuck_ do you--”

“Neither of our offices ever bothered to take us off the mailing roster, sadly,” Crowley cuts in, sounding not very sorry at all. Aziraphale peeks up at him and finds him smiling sardonically. “I _was_ wondering if that was all just a political move.”

They shrink back at that, but Crowley continues mercilessly, grinning. “Believe me, if Gabriel actually managed to love something that's not his own reflection, it's so unlikely it's probably the real thing. How the Heaven did you manage that, then?”

“Shut up,” the Prince snarls, though there's a waver in there, their cheeks flush. “This conversation is over.”

“Do you love him back?” Aziraphale adds, openly smiling, delighted. The demon stands abruptly and turns.

“_Over_!” They repeat, striding out the back room and towards the front door. “Thank you, goodbye, I hope you both _rot_ on this _miserable_ rock!”

The door slams behind them. Aziraphale looks up at Crowley, meeting the demon's astonished grin with his own cheeky smile. His eyes wrinkle in absolute delight. “They _do!_ How precious!”

“How ineffable,” Crowley responds, sounding a bit awed. 

Aziraphale claps his hands together.

“How ineffable indeed!”

-

_He's not going to Fall. He still loves Her, even beside me—his love for me won't make him Fall, he won't **Fall.** Thank Satan, thank the Almighty, thank anyone who's listening. _

_He's not going to Fall._

These are the thoughts that spiral through Beelzebub's mind through their meeting with Michael. They try very hard to remain focused on the mediation at hand, but every spare moment they are drawn back to this mantra, an attempt to give themself some modicum of relief. If their lack of focus is noticed, it goes unmentioned. 

Their meeting draws to a close, the last of the subjects on the itinerary being wrapped up, when Michael's mobile chimes loudly within her jacket. She withdraws the device, glancing at the screen before meeting Beelzebub's gaze. “It's Hastur,” she says. “May I take this?”

The Prince nods in affirmation, sitting back to gaze out the window as the Archangel answers their device, holding it to her ear swiftly. “It's me,” they hear her say. Then, quiet.

Their eyes flick back to Michael, whose eyes have narrowed. Her jaw has gone tight, some nerve there twitching. She meets Beelzebub's eyes, and in her slate gray eyes they find urgency. Concern. Panic, even. 

“We're coming,” she says, keeping their gaze. “How long can you hold your own?” She pauses, listening, and then, “what?”

And again, with far more urgency, far more anxiety. “_What?!_”

Her back has gone rigid as a board—she stands suddenly without explanation, pushing her chair back with a loud noise, nearly shouting into her mobile. “How many? _Hastur! How many is he--_”

When she swears, Beelzebub has already made it to their feet, looping around the table. “Well, don't just stand there speaking to me! Cover him! We're moving your way!” It's with this snap that she hangs up, yanking the door open for the Prince to exit and following their rapid pace towards the escalator. The pair of them are nearly running down the clean, empty halls, as Michael explains in as concise a manner as she can.

“More infighting for Ligur's faction—at least three Dukes made an attempt on Hastur's life, as well as any of his more powerful captains. Gabriel stepped in to try to stop them amiably under your name--”

“He did _what?!_”

“Two floors down! He's holding them off, he's an Archangel, he's more than capable--”

_“Three fucking Dukezzz?!”_

“Which is why we are running!”

There is no further speaking on the race down the escalators, down the dark halls. There is just the slam of doors that are shoved open, all the while desperately hoping, praying, fearing. Beelzebub hears enraged screaming as they make their way to the epicenter of the second ring, sees the wounded and wild demons on the fringes of the fight; and then they _see him_, in his splendor.

His wings, white and gold, are drawn out of the ether, shining fiercely with Holy Light. It succeeds in pushing the lowest and weakest of the demons back and away, hissing and writhing in pain, but the power of passive Grace ends there. The glow is ineffective on strong demons, on Princes and Dukes, and here, through the white blaze, Beelzebub can see how the primaries and secondaries have been scuffled; how the coverts have been gripped at and dislodged.

All their hard work preening him, gone, and the imbecile can't even fly down here, for the way the ceilings are so low. 

Gabriel turns, wings arcing out behind him and knocking several demons back and away. They're enraptured by the sight of him—gold ichor trails down his right temple, smears at his brow where he's swiped at it to keep it from dripping into his eyes. Under the wound in his hairline is a blooming bruise, shifting in a opalescent hue under his skin. He wields a spear, its handle too short for him, and he knocks back a demon with bulging eyes, his teeth bared.

There is a stitch in his side, evident from how he leans and curls over his abdomen to defend it. Behind him, Hastur's teeth are buried in another Duke's throat, the third tearing him off the demon by the shoulders.

Beelzebub _screams._

Silence falls, or so they think—perhaps the loud ringing that fills the space is just in their ears. Hell, perhaps they haven't even _stopped_ screaming; perhaps their mouth is still making that high, wild noise as they find themself in the center of the scene. Their hands have made their way into the demon's collar to its neck, the second buried in their feathered scalp. Beelzebub can still see in their mind's eye the creature trying to tearing into _their_ angel, _their_ consort.

They tighten their grip, and tear.

The scene becomes less clear in their mind after that. One moment, they are dropping the pieces in their hands; the next, they are wielding a staff as long as they are tall, using its large finial as a mace to swing it into a lesser demon's torso and throw him across the crowded space, into his counterparts.  
*  
Beelzebub is everywhere, filling the air with their screaming, and there is a buzzing loud enough to nearly drown them out. A spreading blackness, a swarm, spills out of their hair and mouth and clothing, filling and filling and _filling_ the space, crawling down the throats of Dukes, creeping into the ears of their followers, biting, scratching--  
*  
Their voice fills the shallow cavern like a boom. Like an earthquake.

_YOU DEFY MY AUTHORITY. YOU DEMEAN MY POSITION. YOU LAY YOUR HANDZZZZZ ON MY CONZZZZZORT? MY **CLAIM?** YOU DO THIZZZZ AND EXZZZZPECT SSSSUCCZZEZZZZZ?_

_HOW DARE YOU. **HOW DARE YOU**. HAVE YOU FORGOTTEN WHO I AM, YOU PATHETIC EXZZZCUZZES FOR DEMONZZZZZ?_

_I AM BA'ALZZZEBUB. I AM ONE OF THE ZZZZEVEN PRINZZZZEZZZ OF HELL. I AM THE **DEVOURER.**_

_I AM THE ZZZECOND FALLEN. I RULE THE LEGIONZZZ. NONE ZZZZIT HIGHER THAN I, BEYOND THE LORD HIMZZZZZELF._

_YOU THREATEN MY POWER?_

_YOU HARM MY ANGEL?_

_ **YOU ECZZZZPECT TO ZZURVIVE?** _

Deathly silence falls, and then the flies are gone as quickly as they had appeared. So too are the Dukes, as well as their factions. The space is suddenly far less claustrophobic, with the remaining beings including Hastur; his soldiers; Michael; and Gabriel, who is on his knees with the effort of holding the Prince of Hell's form tightly to his chest. Beelzebub is still hissing and writhing there, their teeth bared, flies swarming angrily in and out of their sleeves and their wild hair.

Despite the neutralization of threat, they do not calm in his grasp, twisting to break free with a feral cry. Gabriel's chest folds along the length of their back, arms tight bands around their own, his face against the nape of their neck. He does not try to hush them, instead simply holding them in place as they snarl and scream into the air.

It takes time for Beelzebub's struggling to slacken, for them to stop screeching and instead try to catch their breath. When they finally begin to exhaust themself, Gabriel presses his fingers to their mouth, against the flat of their teeth. They pull their gums back, ready to bite down, and then taste ichor, burning holiness and familiarity.

They calm, going lax in his grip, and lets him manhandle them to curl in his arms. They inhale deeply, to center themself.

“Damn, Buzz,” he says in a near whisper, almost reverently. “If that didn't make your point clear, I don't know if anything will. Where'd.... what'd you do with them?”

Beelzebub looks up at him, meets his gaze. They stare at him—their angel, his eyes intense violet, his breath barely labored. He's utterly beautiful, hardly ruffled.

They stare, unblinking, and then burp. A fly swarms out of their mouth.

“Oh, _gross_, Buzz!”

It's instinctive, automatic, when they cry, infuriated, embarrassed, utterly smitten, “PRINZZE. OF. _GLUTTONY!_”

“I'm not kissing you until you brush your teeth and use mouthwash.”

They sputter, make a noise somewhere between a stutter and a squeak, and fall silent, eyes wide. 

Michael is helping Hastur to his feet. He stands, one arm on Michael's for support, and wipes his blackened mouth with the sleeve of his other. “You couldn't've left some for the rest of us?” he snarls, without much passion. “Demon essence don't get as far as human flesh, but it's _somethin'_.”

“I'll buy you a raw burger,” Michael snaps at him, impatient, worrying over his form to try to find any obvious injury, despite his squawking at them. Beelzebub stops paying either of them any mind, putting all their focus onto Gabriel's face, his _face,_ bruised and bloody and utterly beautiful.

_He's not going to Fall,_ their mind chants, a mantra of relief and comfort as they bask in his light. _He's not going to Fall for me._

And then, a final thought strikes them, makes all that relief slip out of their bones and leaves something cold in its place.

_It's not safe for him to stay._

Beelzebub shudders, pushing their face into the crook of Gabriel's neck and inhaling deeply, trying to ground themself through his familiar smell (the smell of clean rain, the smell of cold fresh rapid-moving water. Sharp, refreshing). “Idiot,” they hiss, looping their arms around his neck as he gathers their knees and picks them up. “How badly injured are you?”

The angel scoffs, but they feel the little wince it causes as it disturbs his abdomen. “Barely ruffled,” he says, without strain, carrying them like they are feather light. “Just a couple lucky blows.”

They snarl again, though it's halfhearted, forehead against his jaw. “Shouldn't have happened.”

“Well,” Gabriel starts, grinning crookedly as they peek up at him under their lashes. “I kind of expected them to at least show me an iota of acknowledgment as a fucking Archangel. You would _think_, right?”

Hastur scowls, waving Michael away, favoring his right leg with a hand braced on his thigh. He watches the cradled Prince and their consort with barely concealed disgust. “_Ooohh,_,” he says in a high nasally pitch, in clear mockery, “_Look at the Prince's little angel **pet**, thinks he can play boss while they're away._ Fucking idiots.” He spits a thick wad of blood onto the floor. “Got it in their heads the Prince had you shackled to powerlessness, 'er some shit.”

Above their head, Gabriel snorts. “Guess they learned the hard way how much that wasn't the case.”

“...Yeah,” Hastur says. Beelzebub can feel his stare pinned on their curled back. They don't look at him, don't reveal their face, hiding it instead against Gabriel's dirtied and wrinkled shirt.

“_Mine,_” they hiss terribly softly, so softly only Gabriel can hear. From how his grip tightens, he does.

-

There is little left to settle on the matter at hand; with the three rebelling factions gone, Hastur's own demons scatter quietly and quickly, eager to make themselves scarce with little more than whispers left in their wake. Hastur himself exchanges a few words with Michael, quietly, and a distance away from Prince and Consort, before he too exits.

Michael approaches once more to hover at Gabriel's side, attempting to touch his congealing temple.

“If you're injured, I need to inspect the wounds.” Her tone is sharp, no nonsense, but Gabriel still shrugs her off with surprising ease. 

“What are you, Raphael? I'm _fine_, Michael, really. A couple bruised ribs, maybe, but nothing I can't jump back from."

Her eyes narrow. Beelzebub shifts uncomfortably under her gaze.

“Not if you can't access Her _Grace_, Gabriel.”

“I _have_ it, Michael,” he snaps. “See the wings? Still got access. I'll recover. Get back Upstairs, we've taken up enough of your time. I'll call you in a bit.”

His tone leaves no room for argument, and Michael is thin-lipped when she leaves. Turning his back, Gabriel carries the Prince to their quarters. He sets them gently along the length of the bed with a slight wince, putting a hand to his ribs and dropping next to them in a graceless heap.

Beelzebub curls against his side immediately, squeezing their eyes shut.

_He's not Fallen. He's alright. He's not going to Fall. He still loves Her._

Their hands raise and curl in his chest, and they push their forehead into his sternum, hiding there. “Mine,” they hiss again, grip tight. But there's no heart in the word. There's no force.

Because he isn't fully, is he? And he can't be, not fully theirs. If he took that final leap off the edge to belong to Beelzebub fully, they'd never forgive themself for it. For doing that to him.

Gabriel sighs into their hair. “Yours,” he agrees, stroking the wild mess back. He noses into their hair, and breaks his earlier threat to press his mouth to their forehead. “I'm okay, Buzz. Really.”

_No. He's not,_ they think desperately. _But he will be._

_He will be._

-

With the display of power enforced at the attempted assassination, all riots and displays of rebellion die down. In an instant, three of the most rebellious factions have been demolished by the hand of the Prince, supported by two Archangels of Heaven. With this, threats to their claim withdraw reluctantly, and their name is whispered fearfully through all the levels of Hell for what will be decades or longer.

They are the most powerful Prince in Hell. The status quo has been reestablished.

Beelzebub informs Gabriel of this after grooming his wings back into prime condition, delicate of the pin feathers coming in to replace the broken barbs from the battle. They carefully avoid looking at his face, afraid of what they will do if they see his expression.

“It would be bezzzt if, now that I have control of the zzzituation, you returned to Heaven, and we rezzzumed the original mediation.”

Gabriel initially says nothing to this. Beelzebub sees his wings stiffen at the shoulders, and then relax. “Would the deal be... annulled?”

The Prince is slow, picking their words carefully. “The Contract would be terminated. You would not need to keep the Conzzort title, or the dutiezzz. It will be azzz good azzz annulment.”

They watch him inhale, and then exhale slowly. His voice is small. Vulnerable. “Would it be easier for you? If I left?”

Something in their ribcage shatters. They can't help themself, they _can't_ help pressing their forehead their forehead into the space between his wings, trying desperately to contain all the agony in their chest. 

“You'd be sssafe. You wouldn't be ssssurrounded by demonsss gunning for you, to get to me. You'd be--”

They inhale sharply, hard, dry sobbing. There are no tears, just a wracking, shaking chest. 

This is what love is? This ache in the core of their being? It is similar to the constant low hunger they feel, that flares from moment to moment. It hurts, the sight of his wings _hurts_ them, his bruises are branded on their heart as much as they're on his own skin.

And this is a gift from _Her_? This suffering? This extension of themself, placed in Gabriel's cupped hands without their knowing?

She's so cruel, to still have any grip on the Prince of Hell at all. To torment them like this, like Falling wasn't enough.

They can't have him. He can't be theirs, not in entirety. He has to stay Hers, because if he's not Hers, he'll fall, and he'll hate them. And if he has to stay Hers, then he can't be here.

Beelzebub hates this. They hate how much it hurts, and how bloody selfless it is. They hate that his suffering matters more to them than their own greed.

And yet, they continue to love him. So he must go.

It is their last night together. They allow Gabriel to cradle them, to hold them, spooning them from behind and fucking into them gently. He's so gentle, all night, touching, kissing, holding. They want to cry from his tenderness as he makes them come again and again.

They'll have more nights, in hotel rooms, but not like this. Never again like this.

-

In the morning, Beelzebub walks Gabriel up to the ground floor. He is dressed in his clean light gray suit, sparkling light, angelic. Untainted. No hint of darkness. Holy.

They follow him to the base of the escalators, and then pause there, their hands twisting together. It is a quiet, awkward affair, as Beelzebub tries and fails to find something to say. They look away from his face, to his hands.

There, a spot of discoloration blemishes Gabriel's clean appearance. He fiddles with the ring Beelzebub has manifested for him, as though he means to take it off and give it to them.

(Oh Satan, if he does, they will weep. They will break down and weep at his feet, prostrate themself in front of the angel that stands above them radiating love love _love--_)

“I'd like to keep this, if that's alright with you.”

It's not what they expect; even so, their eyes feel damp.

“I--”

“It's a very nice piece of work,” he continues, staring at his hand as he turns it this way and that. “If you want it back, though--”

“Keep it,” they choke out. “It'z yourzz.”

_I'm yours. You're mine. I'm yours._

Gabriel smiles. He takes their hand in both of his own, slides something into their hand and curls their fingers around it. “It's yours, actually.”

They can't, they can't breathe. Their eyes are terribly wide—something wet slides down their cheek.

Gabriel tilts down, kissing their forehead. “I'll see you soon,” he says, letting their hand go. And then, softly, “You know. I know. That's all we need.”

Like that, Gabriel is on the escalator up, up, gone. Beelzebub stares until they can't see him anymore, until the impression of him fades from their retinas.

They look down at their hand, and uncurl their fingers. The ring in their palm is silver wood, burnished to smoothness. There is a striking inlay of lavender opal, cut across the matte band.

_Yours. Mine. Yours. Mine._

They slide it onto their left ring finger. It fits perfectly.

[ (source) ](https://www.etsy.com/listing/730271830/silver-eucalyptus-bentwood-with-crushed?ref=shop_home_active_20&frs=1)


End file.
